


Our lists of sorrows

by another_Hero



Series: burn the first batch [2]
Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Family, Food, Gingerbread Houses, M/M, brief mention of binge eating, sometimes people are mean to David
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-14
Updated: 2019-10-14
Packaged: 2020-10-06 19:35:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20512346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/another_Hero/pseuds/another_Hero
Summary: Marcy and Clint have come for Christmas. The Brewers and the Roses gather at Patrick's to make gingerbread housesTitle is to match"Our day books, our night thoughts"(it's right before it in the poem it comes from, "Magellan Street, 1974" by Maxine Kumin). This fic could easily follow that one, but there's no need to read it first; it's just about David learning to bake.





	Our lists of sorrows

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by [didipickles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/didipickles/pseuds/didipickles) in the [SCFrozenOver](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/SCFrozenOver) collection. 

> **Prompt:**
> 
> David and Patrick make gingerbread houses. David is exceptionally skilled and fastidious, and Patrick's thick fingers cause mayhem and destruction. 
> 
> Lots of sticky candy kisses.
> 
> Rating up to you, but I'm good with smut!
> 
> \-----
> 
> Hey, didi, I am not sorry about this but it would be impossible to overstate just how much I veered from your prompt. This is kind of all over the place anyway but is, uh, not really filling the prompt I signed up for. However, there are gingerbread houses, David is fastidious and Patrick has thick fingers, and there is...at least one candy kiss.

“Does this look done to you?” David asked Marcy, trying to figure out whether the dark-brown gingerbread had turned a little darker yet. They’d been getting everything ready to make royal icing while Patrick and Clint went out for candy, and also proper groceries, and something for dinner.

“I think so,” she said. She shrugged. “To be honest, David, I usually just buy a kit.” She whispered the word as though it was embarrassing, but she looked amused, thank the brand-new baby Jesus. It was a face Patrick would make. Mrs. Brewer was messing with him.

“All right,” he said, affecting indignation, “well, your _son_ made it sound like this was a—beloved Brewer tradition.”

“Oh, it is,” Marcy said, “we just use kits. This is fun, though,” and it didn’t sound just like a way of making fun of him, “when we’re just doing it for a few of us.”

David had asked about Patrick’s family Christmas traditions even before the invitation had gone out to Marcy and Clint—“What do we have to do?” he’d asked.

“What do we—what?”

“For Christmas? How do they celebrate? Do you all wear ugly sweaters? Because I will not be participating.”

“Oh, you mean, like, traditions?”

“Yes,” David said firmly, “like traditions.”

“Well,” Patrick had said, “we decorate gingerbread houses.”

David’s eyes had gone wide and delighted. “Yourselves?!”

“What?”

“I mean, in New York I used to walk into hotels in the winter hoping that they had gingerbread house contests—”

“Well, ours weren’t going to win any prizes.”

David had stayed up researching gingerbread houses until a near-asleep Patrick mumble-groaned at him to turn off his phone.

There was no way David was going to sit around and watch his family try to put pieces of gingerbread together into houses, so he and Marcy and Patrick and Clint crowded around the table together. His family was supposed to arrive in fifteen minutes or so, which meant they’d arrive in half an hour, his dad grousing about how his mom and sister weren’t ready. In the meantime, he and Marcy had figured out the royal icing, and Patrick had divided up the shapes into houses, and Clint had poured them all drinks.

Now they were all looking at him.

“Why are you asking _me_ what we do? You’re the ones who have done this before!” He tried not to sound too shrill, too whiny, any of the old too-muches.

“It’s your recipe, David,” Patrick said reasonably. “Are we using the icing to glue the cookies together?”

David’s brain snapped back on track, and he gave Patrick a grateful smile, and then he hoped Patrick’s parents hadn’t seen, and then he thought maybe they would like him better if they had, and then he reminded himself: use the icing to glue the cookies together. He’d bought a set of piping bags and tips a little while back, and he’d filled two bags with the icing, then covered the rest of it with plastic. “Yeah,” he said, “yeah,” and they had gotten out seven flat cookie sheets and cake pans to build on, “I guess—should we stick them to the pans, too? Is that a—thing, that you do?”

Marcy nodded.

“Okay, then,” he took a wall rectangle—he could tell it by the window he’d cut out—and piped a straight line across one of the long sides, then set it there. “Okay, Patrick, can you—hold that—okay.” He piped one side of it, got icing over the bottom of a pentagon house front, and tried to set it down lined up. “Is this—am I doing this right? Is this what you do?” Instead of seeking Marcy’s approval, he thought, he could just hand her the piping bag.

“Yeah,” she said, “that looks right,” and she picked up the other piping bag and got to work on a second house. Every piece that David set in place, Patrick held there; he moved his hands only tentatively, and David started to enjoy the shared focus between them, the combined, targeted intensity. Clint and Marcy, when he looked over, were doing the same thing but absolutely relaxed, not a care in the world, wordless.

“This looks great,” Patrick said, in a voice that sounded like _how could you make me think it wouldn’t?_

“Don’t speak too soon,” David said ominously. “We have several more houses to build.” He let Patrick hold that one where it was for a minute, and then they got started on the second one, and then they built the second one, and then all the parts were in place and Patrick was holding it still, another precarious thing turning solid between them. By the time they’d finished their third, Patrick’s parents had put together all the others.

When David looked up, he shook his head a little bit, to clear it. He could have done more—he could have given the houses shapes, _architecture_. Next Christmas, maybe, he’d try some modernism—if they made gingerbread houses next year, if they were with Clint and Marcy, or if Patrick wanted to keep the tradition without them. Who could say. Patrick was grinning down at the seven houses on the table, genuinely delighted.

“So this is the part where we put candy on them, yes?”

“Don’t you think we should wait for your family?” Patrick had a little grin on his face. Patrick was making fun of him. David wanted to say no, wanted to get going, but that wasn’t the look he was going for in front of Clint and Marcy. With the piping bag in his hand, he wanted to squeeze icing onto everything. He could start outlining a door, couldn’t he? He could start—

He must have looked a little intense, because Patrick took the piping bag out of his hand and put his wine glass into it. “They’ll be here in a few minutes.”

“Mm, will they, though?”

“I’m really looking forward to spending some time with them,” Marcy said, so earnestly that David couldn’t bring himself to suggest she would change her mind once she had.

“They’re really looking forward to spending some time with you, too,” he said. “Well, my dad,” he answered honestly. “My mom doesn’t look forward to people.” He didn’t add _unless they’re going to give her something_. It was probably implied. They’d met his mom.

“We did learn a lot from her about wig care, at your birthday party,” Clint offered. For a moment, David loved Clint, for not forcing him to play nice.

“Yes, that was the subject of extensive lessons in our childhood,” David said. “I think when I left this morning she was wearing Gloria, but who _knows_ who we’ll see when they get here?”

“You know,” Clint said, “Patrick had to wear a wig for a play once in high school.”

Patrick gave him a look of outraged betrayal, so David grinned and said, “Tell me more.”

“Well, it was about shoulder-length, you know, dark brown, very curly, and he didn’t tell us a thing about it before we went to the play. We just showed up and there he was.”

“It took me a second to recognize him,” Marcy agreed.

This was what passed for a weird story in Patrick’s family, apparently: when you didn’t tell your parents something, and they got shocked by the eventual finding out. Clint and Marcy must have always had some baseline expectations, some baseline knowledge, about their child. He wondered briefly whether they’d told the story of Patrick’s coming out like this, with people they were close to: _he didn’t tell us a thing about it—we just showed up and there he was._ “Do you have any pictures?”

“Oh, he wouldn’t allow them,” said Marcy seriously.

“It was _not_ a good look,” Patrick assured him.

“And you think that means I _wouldn’t_ want pictures?”

“I’ve never seen any photos of you in high school.”

Alexis probably had some, for blackmail purposes. Patrick was smart enough to figure that out if he actually cared to. He patted Patrick’s arm. “I can tell you with confidence that that’s the best thing for our relationship,” he said faintly.

The knock landed on the door.

Patrick grinned. “You shouldn’t start a marriage with secrets,” he quipped, and then he kissed David’s hairline, just behind his ear, as he passed him on the way to open the door for the Roses.

David turned back to Patrick’s parents. Marcy was smiling at him soppily; Clint had a soft grin on his face. Of course the people who raised Patrick would see teasing as the ultimate expression of love. He hadn’t seen enough of them in person to really be sure of this, of their joy in Patrick’s joy. It was—it was good that they came for Christmas. David was sleeping in the motel and Patrick on the couch because Patrick had given up his bed to his parents, and that was good.

He hoped he wouldn’t be transformed _too_ much further by love, what the fuck.

But that quick moment passed with the arrival of his family. David had made a house for each person even though his mother would refuse to participate at all—the mess, her clothes—and Alexis wouldn’t have the attention span for a gingerbread house of her own but would instead add bits to his at random and exclaim about how cute they were. Seven people wouldn’t really fit around Patrick’s table, anyway; he’d move the extras to the counter.

And basically, after generically polite greetings and the offering of beverages, they all sat around as expected, which is to say: his mother did not sit, his sister went over to the couch and looked over the book on Patrick’s coffee table before immediately taking out her phone, his dad scoped out all of the candies.

“You made these, David?” his dad said. “I have some concerns about their structural integrity.

“They’re cookies.” He shook his head, annoyed. “Don’t worry, I didn’t put any of them together myself.”

“You’d be impressed how tough this icing is, Johnny,” Clint said.

“Okay,” David said, mostly to Patrick but also to his parents because of politeness, “how do I do this?” He pushed his house toward Patrick a little.

Patrick looked at him a little incredulously.

“What?”

“You’re going to let me touch your gingerbread house?”

David paused. Clint chuckled.

Patrick, getting out of his chair to get some more water, kissed David’s temple. Was this on purpose, should he be—touching Patrick more, with his parents here? To inure them, or something? Or to show off? “Why don’t you watch my mom,” he said, “she’s better than I am,” and then he went into the kitchen.

“I love you honey,” David said, in his most nasal and insincere voice, but he slid over to watch Marcy, and Patrick set a glass of water by his house when he came back with the bowl of extra icing.

“There’s nothing to watch,” Marcy said, “not really. You just—use the icing like glue. It sets up pretty fast, so don’t put it down until you know what’s going on top of it. But that’s the only thing to be careful with, really.”

David looked over the bowls and boxes on the table and made a plan: the Nilla wafers for roof tiles, the licorice with little chocolate chips for strings of lights. No, chocolate chips would be terrible lights—white chocolate chips, that made sense.

“So, Marcy, Clint,” his dad said, “I hear this is a Christmas tradition of yours.”

“It can get pretty competitive,” Clint agreed. “With Marcy’s sister’s family, and my brother’s family, and all the kids?”

“We judge them at the end,” Patrick said. “We give out awards.”

“Okay, do the awards come with a prize?” David asked very seriously.

“Hey, I wasn’t going to bring along this part of the tradition,” Patrick said. “That’s up to Dad.”

Clint scoffed. “It’s your favorite part.”

Patrick bent his head in an acknowledgment. David was going to beat him—it was inevitable, given his superior aesthetic sense. “Okay,” he said, “but, a prize, though?”

“Isn’t the satisfaction of victory enough?” Clint said, just a hint of a tease in his voice.

“Well, he’s definitely your dad,” David grumbled, but then he looked up to be sure it had made them laugh. He applied the royal icing to the upper edge of one Nilla wafer at a time.

“Does your family have any Christmas traditions?” Marcy asked.

“Any—oh, not really,” Johnny said, “just a party with friends and family, usually.” Alexis got up and walked over to the table and picked up a gumdrop and pulled it apart with her hands.

“You know,” David said, “there’s a whole house for you, if you want it.”

“Oh, that’s so sweet, David, but I actually”—she frowned and looked at the Brewers—“um, okay.”

There was a possibility, if not a large one, that Alexis had just been polite. David would consider that later. He wouldn’t, actually, if left to his own devices, but since he was staying at the hotel, she would make him. She'd been polite for the sake of Patrick's parents, but she’d probably try to extract a favor in compensation.

“So, the party tomorrow,” Clint said, “should we bring anything?”

Moira sighed. David couldn’t imagine why he’d let himself be talked into this idea.

“Um,” said Johnny, who seemed confused by the question.

David rolled his eyes. To his dad, parties were things that happened after other people did some vague and unspecified things. “Cookies,” he said, “Patrick has requested butter cookies. We have all the ingredients here, but no stamps.”

Clint shrugged. “We can do that. We’ll just cut them in squares.”

“Great,” said Johnny, “that’s, that’s great. David, you never told me what I’m doing for the party.”

“You’re providing the venue.”

“Okay, so you’re saying—nothing, you’re saying I’m not supposed to do anything for the party.”

“No, Dad, you’re the one who—” the party was for. His dad still thought the party was a generous gift for the benefit of their friends. "You're the host." He was counting on his mother not to be offended by hearing it, to understand the polite fiction they were maintaining for his dad and place it above the polite fiction he would otherwise be maintaining for _her_.

She gave a slightly condescending tilt of her head.

“But as the host, don't I need to do anything to prepare? You haven't told me what you need help with. I think I deserve to be kept in the loop.”

David rubbed a finger between his eyebrows. "You know what," he said, "you're in charge of the camel."

"Well, there's no need to be _sarcastic_, David. That was an excellent party.

“Camel?” said Marcy.

“Yeah, Dad got two for a birthday party of my mom’s once.”

“Our collective conception of a party has certainly been altered in recent years,” Moira agreed.

"It's going to be fun, Mom," David said, even though it wasn't, because his dad didn't have a lot of joy in his life.

“Okay, well, if we _want_ more drugs, I mean—”

“No, Alexis, we do not need _any_ drugs at this Christmas party!” David protested. His in-laws were here.

“I’m just saying, I have access.”

“_Stealing_ from the _vet clinic_ is not _access_.”

“Well sorry for trying to _help_, David!”

“David, why didn’t you plan for me to help with the party?”

His dad needed to take it down about ten notches. “I don’t know why I’m supposed to be the one in _charge_ of the party!”

Patrick put a fist on David’s shoulder and rubbed lightly. “Mr. Rose, it would actually be really helpful if you could look over what we’ve brought over there for drinks and figure out whether we’re going to need anything else.”

David reached up to the hand on his shoulder and took it in his.

“Hey,” Patrick said, “you know, I am gonna need that back in a minute so I can finish my house.”

David brought the hand up to examine and realized Patrick’s fingertips were sticky with the residue of candy and frosting. That must have been why he’d had his hand in a fist. David wanted to pull each of Patrick’s fingers into his mouth, one at a time. He let go.

He selected a few rectangles of chocolate for the door of his gingerbread house. It was the kind of chocolate where the center of the segment was thicker than the edges. “This door is very tacky,” he said sadly. “Next time, I would like to consult on our choices of rectangular candy.”

“Next time,” Patrick agreed, and leaned in to kiss David on the mouth.

Oh, Patrick had been _eating_ the candy. David couldn’t—there were too many people in here for him to eat the candy, _really_. He ate a few M&Ms. This should be only them, would be better if it was only them. This, family, it would grow to fill all of their time—

“David,” his mother said, “you don’t seem to be making progress commensurate with that of your competitors.”

“You’re one to talk.”

“I’m finished,” she replied. She was still standing up, not looking at anyone, her voice despondent. “It’s a meditation on the melancholy ordinariness of a life unobserved.”

“We’re literally all observing it."

“Oh David, for what we spent on your schooling, I’d have expected you to come away with a basic grasp of metaphor.”

“There’s no deadline,” said Marcy. “We can keep working until everybody’s done.” David looked over and saw she had piped lines like the mortar between bricks on all four sides of her house. It would have been a little much, but she’d done it so evenly, it looked beautiful. His, by comparison, looked bare and like he’d hardly given it a thought. It was hard to create the right house aesthetic out of _candy_, at least out of the kind of candy you could buy near Schitt’s Creek. He wrapped licorice around his window and studded it with white chocolate lights.

“That’s good, Marcy,” his dad said, “because I’m not entirely sure what I’m doing here.” David looked over and saw that his dad’s house had a door and nothing else.

“That’s all right, Johnny,” Clint said, “there’s no right way. A gingerbread house is going to look ridiculous no matter what you do.” David looked up and found Clint was creating an elaborate garden on his pan, which sort of felt like cheating, but also David could see how it might be cute? He’d made a tree trunk out of chocolate coins, and now he was sticking green Sour Patch people off of it in all directions. It certainly did look ridiculous.

Alexis was sticking pieces of candy onto her house at random, as far as David could see, and Patrick—well, he was making an effort, but David could see his approach lacked a little finesse. Those thick fingers. David smiled fondly.

Patrick had some decent _ideas_, though. He’d thought through candy a lot more than David had, sometime in his years of experience. He had cut a candy bar on an angle to make a chimney, which was very cute. He’d made a lopsided wreath out of green M&Ms above the door. He’d also piled up a snowbank of frosting on one side of the house. He’d done it by plopping it down there with a knife, though. David could do better.

“I’m going to do that,” he told Patrick, pointing, and he piped artful piles of frosting.

“So you weren’t doing that, actually,” Patrick said.

David nodded. “That,” he said, “but pretty.”

“Ooh, burn, Patrick,” Alexis said. She had a piece of taffy stretched between her fingers; David realized that would have been a different way to make snow.

“Do you need some more ideas to copy?” Patrick asked, turning his house a little bit in each direction for David to see.

“Hey, _I’ve_ never _done_ this before. I’m profiting from your greater experience.”

“Does ‘what’s mine is yours’ apply to gingerbread house decorations?” Patrick asked.

That was it. David was putting a wreath above his door. But he was putting a white-chocolate chip over every green M&M, and also his were going to be in an actual circle; he’d trace it if he had to. He went to the kitchen for a cork. “Hold this here,” he said to Patrick, placing the cork where he liked.

“You know that’s what the icing’s for, David.”

David rolled his eyes and turned circles with his wrist in an _I’m-waiting_ gesture. Patrick took the cork. David stuck green M&Ms around it, one at a time.

“Hey!” Patrick said when he was halfway through, and jerked the cork away.

David grabbed his wrist and brought it back. “What’s yours is mine,” he murmured, grinning. This was as affectionate as _he _was getting in front of Patrick’s parents.

“You know, if you take all my ideas, you’re going to have to share your prize.”

David shrugged. “What’s mine is yours,” he said sweetly.

Patrick kissed him. “Gosh, I can’t wait to try out some of those sweaters.”

David rolled his eyes, because the alternative was exploring whether that was, in fact, hot, and there were far too many people here for that.

“Do you have any Christmas sweaters, David?” Clint asked, in a voice that suggested he knew exactly what he was doing.

“Yes,” said David archly, “there’s a nice Givenchy one that really evokes a flurry of snow.”

Clint nodded. “I’m sure it does.”

Patrick cracked; he was full-on laughing now.

“It’s from several seasons ago,” David's mom said, unnecessarily.

Patrick glanced at David.

“Yeah,” David said. “Um, Dad, how’s your house coming?”

“Oh, I think it’s coming along nicely,” his dad said. He’d started to cover the roof with chocolate chips, just a whole layer of them, dipped in the icing and placed one at a time.

“Great, um—do you want any help with that?” David was over the event and the having to act polite. Marcy was done with her house: she’d gotten up and started offering drink refills, tidying the table in front of her, and David didn’t want to make her wait, and as soon as this was over his mother would leave and he could come up with some errand and be alone, or alone with Patrick, but crucially without his family.

“No, no, finish your house.”

“Mom,” Patrick said, “sit down. Help Mr. Rose with his roof.”

“Oh, you don’t have to do that, Marcy,” David’s dad said, but he moved so she could reach the other side.

“Does anybody want anything, though?” Patrick asked. Nobody said they did. Alexis was up again, looking at everyone’s houses. David was still affixing his white chocolate chips. Patrick stood up, but he stayed behind David, hands on his shoulders.

David leaned his head back. “Looking for something?”

“Just ready to stand.”

“Ooh, Patrick,” Alexis said, “your house is so _cute_, it’s like a little _barn_.”

“Uh, thanks?”

“I like barns now,” she said. “Mutt? On the edge of town? Has a _very_ nice one.”

“And what about _my_ house, Alexis, what’s it like?” David knew better, but he couldn’t help himself.

“I don’t know, David, a _house_,” she said impatiently.

“Yours looks like an art piece from 2009 about rampant consumerism,” he said pleasantly. He was pretty sure Alexis did not care even a little bit.

“Hey, Dad,” Patrick said, and called him into the kitchen. They emerged a few minutes later with a written list. David frowned at Patrick, who raised his eyebrows mildly back. “All right,” he said, “we have the list of house awards.”

Clint read from the paper: “First, _most whimsical_ goes to Alexis.” Alexis set a flat hand briefly under her chin. David thought _whimsical_ was a stretch, but clearly this was going to be one of those games where everyone wins. The prize was probably candy.

“_Best landscaping_ clearly goes to Dad,” said Patrick. Clint really had come up with some clever ideas: there was a frozen-over pond of stretched blue and white taffy, a swingset made mostly of pretzels. It was an absurd little country house made of candy. David would need a few years’ practice to accept the inherent ridiculousness of candy houses and figure out how candy could look. Or maybe next year, if they were going to do this, David would make practice houses. He could eat the ugly ones.

“_Nicest barn_ goes to Patrick,” said Clint, and Patrick pretended to be offended, and Alexis did the flat-hand-under-her-chin gesture again.

“_Saddest artistic vision_ goes to Mrs. Rose,” said Patrick, and David’s mom waved away some imaginary applause.

“Johnny’s house wins the award for _brownest_,” said Clint. David pressed his lips together.

David’s dad looked at his house with its chocolate roof and chocolate door and said, “You know, that’s fair.”

“Mom’s house is _tidiest_,” said Patrick. “And the award for cutest plagiarism goes to David.”

“He’s always been willing to take credit for other people’s work,” Moira said. “You know, in New York—”

“And you made me _help_,” Patrick said, faux-sad, eyes fixed on David and tone light. “You made me an accomplice in my own defeat.”

“Mm, okay, but is the idea of making a wreath out of M&Ms _really_ your intellectual property?” David asked, but smiling, reaching out and tugging Patrick by the leg.

“We’ll never know now,” Patrick said mournfully, “not when it’s been done so much better.”

“That’s right,” David said softly.

David knew this would end now—his family wouldn’t prolong it. And sure enough, his dad stood up. “Well, this was fun,” he said.

“It’s a _very_ cute tradition,” Alexis non-agreed.

“But we should probably be getting to bed,” his dad finished.

David didn’t stand up as his family left; the Brewers saw them out, but he didn’t want to give the mistaken impression that he would be leaving with them. Once they were out, he stood and started putting candy back into bags. He’d put it somewhere safe, in case the Brewers got the brilliant idea to bring it to the party before he could bake with it or eat it.

Patrick, coming back in, knocked a shoulder against his and let his head rest in David’s neck. “You okay?”

David frowned. “Hmm?”

Patrick didn’t clarify.

“They weren't great,” David agreed.

“That’s an understatement.” Patrick had a tendency to get protective around David's family, which was very cute, except for how it drew attention to things David might have just as happily ignored.

“But now your parents will understand why you definitely have to walk me back.”

Patrick chuckled. “They would have understood that anyway.”

“Hey, Patrick, do you want to hold onto these?” Clint asked.

“Just keep David’s and Mom’s,” he said, “we’ll take those to the party.”

“And one to eat,” David added. “Not Alexis’.”

A smile bloomed on Patrick’s face; a matching one showed up on his mother’s. David rubbed his hand over the short hair at the back of Patrick’s neck, and then he went to help clean up. He didn’t _want_ to help clean up, but he didn’t want to look like he wasn’t willing to.

Clint caught on, though. “Hey, David,” he said, “you did all this baking. You sit down.”

David stepped back, but he wasn’t sure—should he sit on the couch, far away, or in a chair, in the way, or should he go?

Patrick must have seen him working this out. “Hey, Dad, Mom,” he said, “I think I’m going to walk David back to the motel.”

Clint nodded and waved absentmindedly. “Go ahead,” Marcy said. “We’ll be fine here.”

Once they were in the stairwell, Patrick leaned against the wall and pulled David to him by the arms of his winter coat. He kissed him softly. “My parents are going to be worried about you.”

David felt his eyes go wide.

“Not about me,” Patrick chuckled. “About you. My mom’s gonna say something like, _David’s family wasn’t very nice to him tonight_, and then she’s going to try and come up with something she can do for you.”

“She came all the way here,” David said, “but by all means, don’t try to talk her out of doing anything else.”

“But _are_ you okay?”

David kissed him again. “I’m better now.”

“You don’t have to go, you know. You can stay here. We can figure it out.”

“I don’t sleep on air mattresses.”

“I would sleep on the air mattress, David.”

“No,” David said, “no, it’s okay.”

Patrick raised his eyebrows.

“I wasn’t very nice to them either.”

Patrick shook his head.

“I mean, we aren’t necessarily—nice,” David said. “It doesn’t mean—”

When he didn’t finish the sentence, Patrick kissed him again. “I know,” he said. “But being not-necessarily-nice to you is my job. I don’t like when they take my spot.”

David tugged on Patrick’s lower lip with his teeth. “You’re nice to me,” he said. He reached for Patrick’s hands. “Oh,” he said. They were still sugary. David pulled an index fingertip into his mouth, ran his tongue firmly over the pad of it, and sucked.

“David,” Patrick warned, “this is not stairwell activity.”

David moved on to the next finger.

“And yet,” Patrick continued, his voice a little thinner, “here we are.”

David did have to laugh at that, a real open-mouthed laugh. Patrick grinned shyly at it, like he’d never seen such a thing before.

“Come on,” Patrick said, “we can’t kill all the time until Alexis goes to bed.”

“Are you going to leave right away because she’s there?”

“No way,” Patrick said. “I’m going to stay there and fight anybody who’s mean.”

David bit his earlobe. “Okay but _I_ never get to threaten violence for _you._”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Patrick said, and kissed his lips, “you’re going to come through for me,” and kissed him again, “just as soon as my parents start suggesting I move back to my hometown.”

David gave him a look of mock horror.

“We’re not doing that,” Patrick agreed.

“I’m not going to fight your mom.” He wanted to go back to licking Patrick’s fingers, but not while they were talking about his parents.

“No, but you’ll tell her not to hassle me.”

“Oh, I will?”

“Yeah,” Patrick said, leaning up again to kiss him, “if I need you to.”

“Mm,” David said, “I guess I will.”


End file.
